"One, two, three," began the boy, and the others flew off in all directions.

All except Rosy Posy. She remained, and, patting King's cheek with her fat little hand, said: "Me'll take care of you, Budder. Don't ky."

"All right, Baby,—thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,—take that leaf out of my eye! thirty-nine, forty—thank you, Posy."

A minute more, and King shouted "Fifty! Coming, ready or not!" and, shaking himself out of his leaf-heap, he ran in search of the others. Rosy Posy, used to being thus unceremoniously left, tumbled herself and Boffin into the demolished leaf-heap, and played there contentedly.

King hunted for some minutes without finding anybody. Then a voice right over his head said, "Oo-ee!"

He looked up quickly, but saw only a tree which had not yet shed its foliage, and who was up there he could not guess from the voice.

If he guessed wrong, he must be "It" over again, so he peered cautiously up into the branches.

"Who are you?" he called.

"Oo-ee!" said a voice again, but this time it sounded different.

"Here goes, then," said King, and he swung himself up into the lower branches, keeping sharp watch lest his quarry elude him, and slip down the other side.

But once fairly up in the tree, he found the whole five there awaiting him, and as they all dropped quickly to the ground, and ran for "home" he had to jump and follow, to get there first himself.

The jolly game of Hide-and-Seek lasted the rest of the morning, and then the little guests went home, promising to come back in the afternoon and bring their contributions to the treasury of the "Jinks Club."

The afternoon meeting found the Maynards in spandy-clean clothes, sitting on the side veranda.

"Mother says we're not to romp this afternoon," explained Marjorie. "She says we may swing, or play in the hammock, or on the lawn, but we can't go to the orchard."

"All right," said good-natured Dick; "and, say, I've been thinking over our club, and I think we ought to be more like a real club. Why not have regular meetings, and have programmes and things?"

"Oh!" groaned King. "Speak pieces, do you mean?"

"No; not that. We get enough of speaking pieces, Friday afternoons, in school. I mean,—oh, pshaw, I don't know what I mean!"

"You mean read minutes, and things like that," suggested Marjorie, helpfully.

"Yes," said Dick, eagerly, "that's just what I mean."

"All right," said Marjorie, "I'll be secretary, and write them."

"Now, look here, Midge," said Kingdon, "you can't be everything! You want to be president and treasurer and secretary and all. Perhaps you'd like to be all the members!"

"Fiddlesticks, King!" said Marjorie; "nobody else seems to want to be anything. Now, I'll tell you what, let's have six things to be,—officers, you know, and then we'll each be one."

"That's a good way," said Gladys. "You be treasurer, Marjorie, 'cause you're so good at arithmetic, and you can take care of our money. Dick can be secretary, 'cause he writes so well."

"I will," said Dick, "if King will be president. He's best for that,—and then, Gladys, you can be vice-president."

"What can Dorothy and I be?" asked Kitty, who didn't see many offices left.

Marjorie considered. "You can be the committee," she said, at last. "They always have a committee to decide things."

This sounded pleasing, and now all were satisfied.

"Well, if I'm treasurer," said Marjorie, "I'll take up the collection now."

Promptly five dimes were handed to her, and, adding one of her own, she put them all into a little knitted silk purse she had brought for the purpose.

"Is there any further business to come before this meeting?" asked the President, rolling out his words with great dignity, as befitted his position.

"No, sir," said Kitty; "I'm the committee to decide things, and I say there isn't any more business. So what do we do next?"

"I'll tell you!" cried Midget, in a sudden burst of inspiration; "let's go down to Mr. Simmons' and all have ice-cream with our money in the treasury. I'll ask Mother if we may."

"But, Mopsy!" cried King, in surprise. "I thought we were to save that to go to the circus."

"Oh, pshaw! Father'll take us to the circus. Or we can save next week's money for that. But, truly, I feel like cutting up jinks, and we can't play in the orchard, and it would be lots of fun to go for ice-cream, all together."

"It would be fun," said Dick; and then they all agreed to Marjorie's plan.

Mrs. Maynard listened with amusement to the story, and then said they might go if they would behave like little ladies and gentlemen and return home inside of an hour.

Off they started, and a more decorous-looking crowd than the Jinks Club one would not wish to see!

Mr. Simmons' Ice-Cream Garden was a most attractive place.

It was a small grove, by the side of a small stream, and the tables were in a sort of pavilion that overlooked the water.

The children were welcomed by the good-natured old proprietor, who had served his ice-cream to their parents when they were children.

"And what kind will you have?" asked Mr. Simmons, after they were seated around a table.

This required thought, but each finally chose a favorite mixture, and soon they were enjoying the pink or white pyramids that were brought them.

"I do think the Jinks Club is lovely," said Kitty, as she gazed out over the water and contentedly ate her ice-cream.

"So do I," said Dorothy, who always agreed with her adored chum, but was, moreover, happy on her own account.

"I shall write all this up in the minutes!" declared Dick. "And when shall we have our next meeting?"

"Next Saturday," said Kitty. "I'm the committee, and I decide things."

"So do I," said Dorothy, and they all agreed to meet the next Saturday morning.



CHAPTER VIII

SPELLING TROUBLES

"What is the matter, Midge?" said her father, "You sigh as if you'd lost your last friend."

The family were in the pleasant living-room one evening, just after dinner.

All, that is, except Rosy Posy, who had gone to bed long ago. Kingdon was reading, and Kitty was idly playing with the kitten, while Marjorie, her head bent over a book on the table, was abstractedly moving her lips as if talking to herself.

"Oh, Father! it's this horrid old spelling lesson. I just can't learn it, and that all there is about it!"

"Can't learn to spell? Bring me your book, and let me have a look at it."

Very willingly Marjorie flew to her father's side, and, big girl though she was, perched herself on his knee while she showed him the page.

"Just look! There's 'deleble' spelled with an e, and 'indelible' with an i! Why can't they spell them alike?"

"I think myself they might as well have done so," said Mr. Maynard, "but, since they didn't, we'll have to learn them as they are. Where is your lesson?"

"All that page. And they're fearfully hard words. And words I'll never use anyway. Why would I want to use 'harassed' and 'daguerreotype' and 'macaroni' and such words as those?"

Mr. Maynard smiled at the troubled little face.

"You may not want to use them, dearie, but it is part of your education to learn to spell them. Come, now, I'll help you, and we'll soon put them through. Let's pick out the very hardest one first."

"All right; 'daguerreotype' is the hardest."

"Oh, pshaw, no! That's one of the very easiest. Just remember that it was a Frenchman named Daguerre who invented the process; then you only have to add 'o' and 'type,' and there you are!"

"Why, that is easy! I'll never forget that. 'Macaroni' is a hard one, though."

"Why?"

"Oh, because I always put two c's or two r's or two n's in it."

"Ho, that makes it easy, then. Just remember that there isn't a double letter in it, and then spell it just as it sounds. Why, macaroni is so long and thin that there isn't room for a double letter in it."

"Oh, Father, you make it so easy. Of course I'll remember that, now."

Down the long list they went, and Mr. Maynard, with some little quip or quibble, made each word of special interest, and so fixed it in Marjorie's memory. At the end of a half-hour she was perfect in the lesson, and had thoroughly enjoyed the learning of it.

"I wish you'd help me every night," she said, wistfully. "All this week, anyway. For there's to be a spelling-match on Friday, between our class and Miss Bates' class, and we want to win. But I'm such a bad speller, nobody wants to choose me on their side."

"They don't, don't they? Well, I rather think we'll change all that. You and I will attack Mr. Speller every evening, and see if we can't vanquish him."

"I think we can," said Marjorie, her eyes sparkling. "For it's only some few of those catchy words that I can't seem to learn. But after you help me they all seem easy."

So every night that week Midge and her father had a spelling-class of their own, and fine work was accomplished.

The spelling-match was to be on Friday, and Thursday night they were to have a grand review of all the lessons. Marjorie brought home her schoolbooks on Thursday, and left them in the house while she went out to play. But when she came in to get ready for dinner, her mother was dressing to go out.

"Where are you going, Mother?" said Marjorie, looking admiringly at her mother's pretty gown.

"We're going to Mrs. Martin's to dinner, dearie. She invited us over the telephone this morning. There's a very nice dinner prepared for you children, and you must have a good time by yourselves, and not be lonesome. Go to bed promptly at nine o'clock, as we shall be out late."

"Is father going, too?" cried Marjorie, aghast.

"Yes, of course. You may fasten my glove, Midget, dear."

"But I want father to help me with my spelling."

"I thought about that, Mops," said her father, coming into the room. "And I'm sorry I have to be away to-night. But I'll tell you what we'll do. When is this great spelling-match,—to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow afternoon."

"Well, you study by yourself this evening, and learn all you can. Then skip to bed a bit earlier than usual, and then hop up early to-morrow morning. You and I will have an early breakfast, at about seven o'clock. Then from half-past seven to half-past eight I'll drill you in that old speller till you can spell the cover right off it."

"All right," said Marjorie. "It's really just as well for me to study alone to-night, and then you can help me a lot to-morrow morning. But won't it make you too late going to business?"

"No, I'll take a half-hour off for your benefit. If I leave here by half-past eight that will do nicely, and that's about the time you want to go to school."

So the matter was settled, and Mr. and Mrs. Maynard drove away, leaving the three children to dine by themselves. The meal was a merry one, for when thus left to themselves the children always "pretended."

"I'm a princess," said Marjorie, as she seated herself in her mother's place. "These dishes are all gold, and I'm eating birds of paradise with nectarine sauce."

Even as she spoke, Sarah brought her a plate of soup, and Midge proceeded to eat it with an exaggerated air of grandeur, which she thought befitted a princess.

"I'm not a prince," said Kingdon. "I'm an Indian chief, and I'm eating wild boar steak, which I shot with my own trusty bow and arrows."

"I'm a queen in disguise," said Kitty. "I'm hiding from my pursuers, so I go around in plain, dark garbs, and no one knows I'm a queen."

"How do we all happen to be dining at one table?" asked Marjorie.

"It's a public restaurant," said King. "We all came separately, and just chanced to sit at the same table. May I ask your name, Madam?"

"I'm the Princess Seraphina," said Marjorie, graciously. "My home is in the sunny climes of Italy, and I'm travelling about to see the world. And you, noble sir, what is your name?"

"I am Chief Opodeldoc, of the Bushwhack Tribe. My tomahawk is in my belt, and whoever offends me will add his scalp to my collection!"

"Oh, sir," said Kitty, trembling; "I pray you be not so fierce of manner! I am most mortal timid."

Kitty had a fine dramatic sense, and always threw herself into her part with her whole soul. The others would sometimes drop back into their every-day speech, but Kitty was always consistent in her assumed character.

"Is it so, fair Lady?" said King, looking valiant. "Have no fear of me. Should aught betide I will champion thy cause to the limit."

"And mine?" said Marjorie. "Can you champion us both, Sir Opodeldoc?"

"Aye, that can I. But I trust this is a peaceful hostelry. I see no sign of warfare."

"Nay, nay, but war may break out apace. Might I enquire your name, fair lady?"

"Hist!" said Kitty, her finger on her lip, and looking cautiously about, "I am, of a truth, the Queen of—of Macedonia. But disguised as a poor waif, I seek a hiding-place from my tormentors."

"Why do they torment you?"

"'Tis a dark secret; ask me not. But tell of yourself, Princess Seraphina. Dost travel alone?"

"Yes; with but my suite of armed retainers. Cavalrymen and infantry attend my way, and twelve ladies-in-waiting wait on me."

"A great princess, indeed," said King, in admiration. "We are well met!"

"Methinks I am discovered!" cried Kitty, as Sarah approached her with a dish of pudding. "This damsel! She is of my own household. Ha! Doth she recognize me?"

Although used to the nonsense of the children, Sarah couldn't entirely repress a giggle as Kitty glared at her.

"Eat your dinner, Miss Kitty," she said, "an' don't be afther teasin' me."

"Safe!" exclaimed Kitty. "She knows me not! 'Kitty' she calls me! Ha!"

The play went on all through the meal, for the Maynards never tired of this sort of fun.

"I'm going out for a few minutes," said King, as they at last rose from the table. "Father said I might go down to Goodwin's to get slides for my camera. I won't be gone long."

"All right," said Marjorie, "I'm going to study my spelling. What are you going to do, Kit?"

"I'm going up to the playroom. Nannie is going to tell me stories while she sews."

So Marjorie was alone in the living-room as she took up her school-bag to get her spelling-book from it. To her dismay it was not there! The book which she had mistakenly brought for her speller was her mental arithmetic; they were much the same size, and she often mistook one for the other.

But this time it was a serious matter. The spelling-match was to be the next day, and how could she review her lessons without her book?

Her energetic mind began to plan what she could do in the matter.

It was already after seven o'clock, quite too late to go to the schoolhouse after the missing book. If King had been at home she would have consulted him, but she had no one of whom to ask advice.

She remembered what her father had said about getting up early the next morning, and she wondered if she couldn't get up even earlier still, and go to the schoolhouse for the book before breakfast. She could get the key from the janitor, who lived not far from her own home.

It seemed a fairly feasible plan, and, though she would lose her evening's study, she determined to go to bed early, and rise at daybreak to go for the book.

"I'll write a note to mother," she thought, "telling her all about it, and I'll leave it on her dressing-table. Then, when she hears me prowling out at six o'clock to-morrow morning, she'll know what I'm up to."

The notion of an early morning adventure was rather attractive, but suddenly Marjorie thought that she might not be able to get the key from the janitor so early as that.

"Perhaps Mr. Cobb doesn't get up until seven or later, and I can't wait till then," she pondered. "I've a good notion to go for that key to-night. Then I can go to the schoolhouse as early as I choose in the morning without bothering anybody."

She rose and went to the window. It was quite dark, for, though the streets were lighted, the lights were far apart, and there was no moon.

Of course, Marjorie never went out alone in the evening, but this was such an exceptional occasion, she felt sure her parents would not blame her.

"If only King was here to go with me," she thought. But King was off on his own errand, and she knew that when he returned he would want to fix his camera, and, anyway, it would be too late then.

Mr. Cobb's house was only three blocks away, and she could run down there and back in ten minutes.

Deciding quickly that she must do it, Marjorie put on her coat and hat and went softly out at the front door. She felt sure that if she told Nurse Nannie or Kitty of her errand, they would raise objections, so she determined to steal off alone. "And then," she thought, "it will be fun to come home and ring the bell, and see Sarah's look of astonishment to find me at the door!"

It was a pleasant night, though cool, and Marjorie felt a thrill of excitement as she walked down the dark path to the gate, and then along the street alone.

In a few moments she reached Mr. Cobb's house, and rang the doorbell. Mr. Cobb was not at home, but when Mrs. Cobb appeared at the door, Marjorie made known her errand.

"Why, bless your heart, yes, little girl," said the kindly disposed woman. "I'll let you take the key, of course. Mr. Cobb, he always keeps it hangin' right here handy by. So you're goin' over to the school at sun-up! Well, well, you've got spunk, haven't you, now? And don't bother to bring 't back. Mr. Cobb, he can stop at your house for it, as he goes to the school at half-past seven. Mebbe he'll get there 'fore you do, after all. I dunno if you'll find it so easy to wake up at six o'clock as you think."

"Oh, yes I will, Mrs. Cobb," said Midget. "I'm going to set an alarm clock. The only trouble is that will awaken my sister, too. But I 'spect she'll go right to sleep again. You see it's a very important lesson, and I must have that book."

"All right, little lady. Run along now and get to bed early. Are you afraid? Shall I walk home with you?"

"Oh, no, thank you. It's only three blocks, and I'll run all the way. I'm ever so much obliged for the key."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm glad to accommodate you. Good-night."

"Good-night, Mrs. Cobb," said Marjorie, and in another moment the gate clicked behind her.

As she reached the first turning toward her own home, she looked off in the other direction, where the schoolhouse stood. It was several blocks away, and Marjorie was thinking how she would run over there the next morning. And then a crazy thought jumped into her brain. Why not go now? Then she could study this evening, after all. It was dark, to be sure, but it was not so very late,—not eight o'clock yet.

The thought of entering the empty schoolhouse, alone, and in utter darkness, gave her a thrill of fear, but she said to herself:

"How foolish! There's nothing to be afraid of in an empty schoolhouse. I can feel my way to our classroom, and the street lights will shine in some, anyway. Pooh, I guess I wouldn't be very brave if I was afraid of nothing! And just to think of having that book to-night! I can get it and be back home in twenty minutes. I believe I'll do it!"

Marjorie hesitated a moment at the corner. Then she turned away from her home and toward the schoolhouse, and took a few slow steps.

"Oh, pshaw!" she said to herself. "Don't be a coward, Marjorie Maynard! There's nothing to hurt you, and if you scoot fast, it won't take ten minutes to get that book."

In a sudden accession of bravery, Marjorie started off at a brisk pace.

As she went on, her courage ebbed a little, but a dogged determination kept her from turning back.

"I won't be a baby, or a 'fraid cat!" she said angrily, to herself. "I'm not doing anything wrong, and there's no reason at all to be frightened. But I do wish it wasn't so dark."

The part of town where the school stood was less thickly settled than where Marjorie lived, and she passed several vacant lots. This made it seem more lonely, and the far-apart street lights only seemed to make darker the spaces between.

But Marjorie trudged on, grasping the key, and roundly scolding herself for being timid.



CHAPTER IX

A REAL ADVENTURE

When at last she stood on the stone steps of the schoolhouse, her courage returned, and, without hesitation, she thrust the key in the lock of the door.

It turned with a harsh, grating sound, and the little girl's heart beat rapidly as she pushed open the heavy door. The hall was as black as a dungeon, but by groping around she found the banister rail, and so made her way upstairs.

Her resolution was undaunted, but the awful silence of the empty, dark place struck a chill to her heart. She ran up the stairs, and tried to sing in order to break that oppressive silence. But her voice sounded queer and trembly, and it made echoes that were worse than no sound at all.

She had to go up two flights of stairs, and as she reached the top of the second flight she was near her own classroom. As she turned the doorknob, the street door, downstairs, which she had left open, suddenly slammed shut with a loud bang. The sound reverberated through the building, and Midget stood still, shaking with an unconquerable nervous dread. She didn't know whether the door blew shut or had been slammed to by some person. She no longer pretended to herself that she was not frightened, for she was.

"I know I'm silly," she thought, as two big tears rolled down her cheeks, "but if I can just get that book, and get out of here, won't I run for home!"

Feeling her way, she stumbled into the classroom. A faint light came in from the street, but not enough to allow her to distinguish objects clearly. Indeed, it cast such wavering, ghostly shadows that the total darkness was preferable.

Counting the desks as she went along, she came at last to her own, and felt around in it for her speller.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, triumphantly, as she clutched the book. And somehow the feeling of the familiar volume took away some of the loneliness.

But her trembling fingers let her desk-cover fall with another of those resounding, reechoing slams that no one can appreciate who has not heard them under similar circumstances.

By this time Marjorie was thoroughly frightened, though she herself could not have told what she was afraid of. Grasping the precious speller, she started, with but one idea in her mind,—to get downstairs and out of that awful building as quickly as possible.

She groped carefully for the newel-post, for going down was more dangerous than coming up, and she feared she might fall headlong.

Safely started, however, she almost ran downstairs, and reached the ground floor, only to find the front door had a spring-lock, which had fastened itself when the door banged shut.

Marjorie's heart sank within her when she realized that she was locked in the schoolhouse.

She thought of the key, but she had stupidly left that on the outside of the door.

"But anyway," she thought, "I don't believe you have to have a key on the inside. You don't to our front door at home. You only have to pull back a little brass knob."

The thought of home made a lump come into poor Marjorie's throat, and the tears came plentifully as she fumbled vainly about the lock of the door.

"Oh, dear," she said to herself, "just s'pose I have to stay here all night. I won't go upstairs again. I'll sit on the steps and wait till morning."

But at last something gave way, the latch flew up, and Marjorie swung the big door open, and felt the cool night air on her face once more.

It was very dark, but she didn't mind that, now that she was released from her prison, and, after making sure that the door was securely fastened, she put the key safely in her pocket, and started off toward home.

The church clock struck eight just as she reached her own door, and she could hardly believe she had made her whole trip in less than an hour. It seemed as if she had spent a whole night alone in the schoolhouse. She rang the bell, and in a moment Sarah opened the door.

"Why, Miss Marjorie, wherever have you been?" cried the astonished maid. "I thought you was up in your own room."

"I've been out on an errand, Sarah," answered Midge, with great dignity.

"An errand, is it? At this time o' night! I'm surprised at ye, Miss Marjorie, cuttin' up tricks just because the folks is away."

"Hello, Mopsy!" cried Kingdon, jumping downstairs three at a time. "What have you been up to now, I'd like to know."

"Nothing much," said Marjorie, gaily. Her spirits had risen since she found herself once again in her safe, warm, light home. "Don't bother me now, King; I want to study."

"Mother'll study you when she knows that you've been out walking alone at night."

"I don't want you to tell her, King, because I want to tell her myself."

"All right, Midge. I know it's all right, only I think you might tell me."

"Well, I will," said Midget, in a sudden burst of confidence.

Sarah had left the room, so Marjorie told King all about her adventure.

The boy looked at her with mingled admiration and amazement.

"You do beat all, Mopsy!" he said. "It was right down plucky of you, but you ought not to have done it. Why didn't you wait till I came home, and I would have gone for you."

"I didn't mean to go, you know, at first. I just went all of a sudden, after I had really started to come home. I don't think Mother'll mind, when I explain it to her."

"You don't, hey? Well, just you wait and see!"

It was not easy to settle down to studying the speller, after such an exciting adventure to get it, but Marjorie determinedly set to work, and studied diligently till nine o'clock, and then went to bed.

Next morning her father awakened her at an early hour, and a little before seven father and daughter were seated at a cozy little tete-a-tete breakfast.

At the table Marjorie gave her father a full description of her experiences of the night before.

Mr. Maynard listened gravely to the whole recital.

"My dear child," he said, when she finished the tale, "you did a very wrong thing, and I must say I think you should have known better."

"But I didn't think it was wrong, Father."

"I know you didn't, dearie; but you surely know that you're not allowed out alone at night."

"Yes; but this was such a very unusual occasion, I thought you'd excuse it. And, besides King was out at night."

"But he's a boy, and he's two years older than you are, and then he had our permission to go."

"That's just it, Father. I felt sure if you had known all about it, you would have given me permission. I was going to telephone and ask you if I might go to Mr. Cobb's, and then I thought it would interrupt the dinner party. And I didn't think you'd mind my running around to Mr. Cobb's. You know when I went there, I never thought of going to the schoolhouse last night."

"How did you come to think of it?"

"Why, I wanted my speller so much, and when I saw the schoolhouse roof sticking up above the trees, it made me think I could just as well run over there then, and so have my book at once."

"And you had no qualms of conscience that made you feel you were doing something wrong?"

"No, Father," said Marjorie, lifting her clear, honest eyes to his. "I thought I was cowardly to be so afraid of the dark. But I knew it wasn't mischief, and I didn't think it was wrong. Why was it wrong?"

"I'm not sure I can explain, if you don't see it for yourself. But it is not right to go alone to a place where there may be unseen or unknown dangers."

"But, Father, in our own schoolhouse? Where we go every day? What harm could be there?"

"My child, it is not right for any one to go into an untenanted building, alone, in the dark. And especially it is not right for a little girl of twelve. Now, whether you understand this or not, you must remember it, and never do such a thing again."

"Oh, Father, indeed I'll never forget that old speller again."

"No; next time you'll do some other ridiculous, unexpected thing, and then say, 'I didn't know it was wrong.' Marjorie, you don't seem to have good common-sense about these things."

"That's what grandma used to say," said Midge, cheerfully. "Perhaps I'll learn, as I grow up, Father."

"I hope you will, my dear. And now, I'm not going to punish you for this performance, for I see you honestly meant no wrong, but I do positively forbid you to go out alone after dark without permission; no matter what may be the exceptional occasion. Will you remember that?"

"Yes, indeed! That isn't hard to remember. And I've never wanted to before, and I don't believe I'll ever want to again, until I'm grown up. Do you?"

"You're a funny child, Midget," said her father, looking at her quizzically. "But, do you know, I rather like you; and I suppose you get your spirit of adventure and daring from me. Your Mother is most timid and conventional. What do you s'pose she'll say to all this, Mopsy mine?"

"Why, as you think it was wrong, I s'pose she'll think so, too. I just can't make it seem wrong, myself, but as you say it was, why, of course it must have been, and I promise never to do it again. Now, if you've finished your coffee, shall we begin to spell?"

"Yes, come on. Since you have the book, we must make the most of our time."

An hour of hard work followed. Mr. Maynard drilled Marjorie over and over on the most difficult words, and reviewed the back lessons, until he said he believed she could spell down Noah Webster himself.

"And you must admit, Father," said Marjorie, as they closed the book at last, "that it's a good thing I did get my speller last night, for I had a whole hour's study on it, and besides I didn't have to go over there for it this morning."

"It would have been a better thing, my child, if you had remembered it in the first place."

"Oh, yes, of course. But that was a mistake. I suppose everybody makes mistakes sometimes."

"I suppose they do. The proper thing is to learn by our mistakes what is right and what is wrong. Now the next time you are moved to do anything as unusual as that, ask some one who knows, whether you'd better do it or not. Now, here's Mother, we'll put the case to her."

In a few words, Mr. Maynard told his wife about Marjorie's escapade.

"My little girl!" cried Mrs. Maynard, catching Marjorie in her arms. "Why, Midget, darling, how could you do such a dreadful thing? Oh, thank Heaven, I have you safe at home again!"

Marjorie stared. Here was a new view of the case. Her mother seemed to think that she had been in danger rather than in mischief.

"Oh," went on Mrs. Maynard, still shuddering, "my precious child, alone in that great empty building!"

"Why, Mother," said Marjorie, kissing her tears away, "that was just it. An empty building couldn't hurt me! Do you think I was naughty?"

"Oh, I don't know whether you were naughty, or not; I'm so glad to have you safe and sound in my arms."

"I'll never do it again, Mother."

"Do it again? Well, I rather think you won't! I shall never leave you alone again. I felt all the time I oughtn't to go off and leave you children last night."

"Nonsense, my dear," said Mr. Maynard, "the children must be taught self-reliance. But we'll talk this matter over some other time. Marjorie, you'll be late to school if you're not careful. And listen to me, my child. I don't want you to tell any one of what you did last evening. It is something that it is better to keep quiet about. Do you understand? This is a positive command. Don't ask me why, just promise to say nothing about it to your playmates or any one. No one knows of it at present, but your mother, Kingdon, and myself. I prefer that no one else should know. Will you remember this?"

"Yes, Father; can't I just tell Gladys?"

Mr. Maynard smiled.

"Marjorie, you are impossible!" he said. "Now, listen! I said tell no one! Is Gladys any one?"

"Yes, Father, she is."

"Very well, then don't tell her. Tell no one at all. Promise me."

"I promise," said Midget, earnestly, and then she kissed her parents and ran away to school.

Kingdon had also been bidden not to tell of Marjorie's escapade, and so it was never heard of outside the family.

When it was time for the spelling-match, Marjorie put away her books, and sat waiting, with folded arms and a smiling face.

Miss Lawrence was surprised, for the child usually was worried and anxious in spelling class.

Two captains were chosen, and these two selected the pupils, one by one, to be their aids.

Marjorie was never chosen until toward the last, for though everybody loved her, yet her inability to spell was known by all, and she was not a desirable assistant in a match.

But at last her name was called, and she demurely took her place near the foot of the line on one side.

Gladys was on the other side, near the head. She was a good speller, and rarely made a mistake.

Miss Lawrence began to give out the words, and the children spelled away blithely. Now and then one would miss and another would go above.

To everybody's surprise, Marjorie began to work her way up toward the head of her line. She spelled correctly words that the others missed, and with a happy smile went along up the line.

At last the "spelling down" began. This meant that whoever missed a word must go to his seat, leaving only those standing who did not miss any word.

One by one the crestfallen unsuccessful ones went to their seats, and, to the amazement of all, Marjorie remained standing. At last, there were but six left in the match.

"Macaroni," said Miss Lawrence.

"M-a-c-c-a-r-o-n-i," said Jack Norton, and regretfully Miss Lawrence told him he must sit down.

Three more spelled the word wrongly, and then it was Marjorie's turn:

"M-a-c-a-r-o-n-i," said she, triumphantly, remembering her father's remark that there were no double letters in it.

Miss Lawrence looked astounded. Now there were left only Marjorie and Gladys, one on either side of the room. It was an unfortunate situation, for so fond were the girls of each other that each would almost rather fail herself than to have her friend fail.

On they went, spelling the words as fast as Miss Lawrence could pronounce them.

Finally she gave Gladys the word "weird."

It was a hard word, and one often misspelled by people much older and wiser than these children.

"W-i-e-r-d," said Gladys, in a confident tone.

"Next," said Miss Lawrence, with a sympathetic look at Gladys.

"W-e-i-r-d," said Marjorie, slowly. Her father had drilled her carefully on this word, bidding her remember that it began with two pronouns: that is, we followed by I. Often by such verbal tricks as this he fastened the letters in Marjorie's mind.

The match was over, and Marjorie had won, for the first time in her life.

Gladys was truly pleased, for she would rather have lost to Marjorie than any one else, and Miss Lawrence was delighted, though mystified.

"I won! I won!" cried Marjorie, as she ran into the house and found her mother. "Oh, Mother, I won the spelling-match! Now, aren't you glad I went after my book?"

"I'm glad you won, dearie; but hereafter I want you to stick to civilized behavior."

"I will, Mother! I truly will. I'm so glad I won the match, I'll stick to anything you say."

"Well, my girlie, just try to do what you think Mother wants you to, and try not to make mistakes."



CHAPTER X

IN INKY PLIGHT

"It's perfectly fine, Glad; I think it will be the most fun ever. How many are you going to have?"

"About thirty, Mother says. I can't ask Kitty, and Dorothy Adams. All on the list are about as old as we are."

"Kitty'll be sorry, of course; but I don't believe mother would let her go in the evening, anyway. She's only nine, you know."

The two friends, Marjorie and Gladys, were on their way to school, and Gladys was telling about a Hallowe'en party she was to have the following week. The party was to be in the evening, from seven till nine, and, as it was unusual for the girls to have evening parties, they looked forward to this as a great occasion. Nearly all of the children who were to be invited went to the same school that Gladys did, so she carried the invitations with her, and gave them around before school began.

The invitations were written on cards which bore comical little pictures of witches, black cats, or jack-o'-lanterns, and this was the wording:

Though the weather's bad or pleasant, You're invited to be present At Miss Gladys Fulton's home On Hallowe'en. Be sure to come. Please accept, and don't decline; Come at seven and stay till nine.

Needless to say these cards caused great excitement among the favored ones who received them.

Boys and girls chattered like magpies until the school-bell rang, and then it was very hard to turn their attention to lessons.

But Marjorie was trying in earnest to be good in school, and not get into mischief, so she resolutely put her card away in her desk, and studied diligently at her lessons.

Indeed, so well did she study that her lesson was learned before it was time to recite, and she had a few moments' leisure.

She took out her pretty card to admire it further, and she scrutinized closely the funny old witch riding on a broomstick, after the approved habit of witches.

The witch wore a high-peaked black hat, and her nose and chin were long and pointed.

Suddenly the impulse seized Marjorie to make for herself a witch's hat.

She took from her desk a sheet of foolscap paper. But she thought a white hat would be absurd for a witch. It must be black. How to make the paper black was the question, but her ingenuity soon suggested a way.

She took her slate sponge, and dipping it in the ink, smeared it over the white paper.

This produced a grayish smudge, but a second and third application made a good black.

The process, however, of covering the whole sheet of paper with ink was extremely messy, and before it was finished, Marjorie's fingers were dyed black, and her desk was smudged from one end to the other.

But so interested was she in making a sheet of black paper that she paid no heed to the untidiness.

Gladys, who had turned her back on Marjorie, in order to study her lesson without distraction, turned round suddenly and gave an exclamation of dismay. This startled Marjorie, and she dropped her sponge full of ink on her white apron.

She straightened herself up, with a bewildered air, aghast at the state of things, and as her curls tumbled over her forehead, she brushed them back with her inky hands.

This decorated her face with black fingermarks, and several of the pupils, looking round at her, burst into incontrollable laughter.

Midget was usually very dainty, and neatly dressed, and this besmeared maiden was a shock to all beholders.

Miss Lawrence turned sharply to see what the commotion might be, and, when she saw the inky child, she had hard work to control her own merriment.

"What is that all over you, Marjorie?" she said, in as stern tones as she could command.

"Ink, Miss Lawrence," said Midget, demurely, her simple straightforward gaze fixed on her teacher's face. This calm announcement of a fact also struck Miss Lawrence ludicrously, but she managed to preserve a grave countenance.

"Yes, I see it's ink. But why do you put it on your face and hands and apron?"

"I don't know, Miss Lawrence. You see, I was using it, and somehow it put itself all over me."

"What were you doing with it?" Miss Lawrence was really stern now, for she had advanced to Marjorie's desk, and noted the sponge and paper.

"Why, I was just making some white paper black."

"Marjorie, you have been extremely naughty. What possessed you to ink that large sheet of paper?"

"I wanted to be a witch," said Marjorie, so ruefully that Miss Lawrence had to laugh after all.

"You are one, my child. You needn't ever make any effort in that direction!"

"And so," went on Midget, cheered by Miss Lawrence's laughing face, "I thought I'd make me a witch's hat, to wear at recess. Truly, I wasn't going to put it on in school. But I had my lessons all done, and so——"

But by this time the whole class was in a gale.

The inky little girl, so earnestly explaining why she was inky, was a funny sight, indeed. And, as they laughed at her, some big tears of mortification rolled down her cheeks.

These she furtively wiped away with her hand, and it is needless to say that this added the finishing touch to the smudgy black and white countenance.

Miss Lawrence gave up. She laughed until the tears ran down her own cheeks, for Marjorie was really crying now, and her little handkerchief only served to spread the inky area around her features.

"My dear child," said the teacher, at last, "I don't know exactly what to do with you. I can't wash that ink from your face, because it won't come off with only cold water. You must go home, and yet you can't go through the streets that way. But I have a brown veil I will lend you. It is fairly thick, and will at least shield you from observation."

So Miss Lawrence took Marjorie to the cloak-room, arrayed her in her own hat and her teacher's veil, and then went with the little girl downstairs to the front door. On the way she talked to her kindly, but she did not attempt to gloss over her naughty deed.

"I am sending you home, Marjorie," she said, "because you are not fit to stay here. If you were, I should keep you in, and punish you. You surely knew it was wrong to spill ink all over everything. You have ruined your desk, to say nothing of your clothes and your own belongings."

"I'm so sorry, Miss Lawrence," said penitent Midget. "I just tried to be good this morning. But I happened to think what fun it would be to have a big, high-peaked witch's hat to prance around in at recess; and I thought I could make the paper black without such a fuss."

"Well," said Miss Lawrence, with a sigh, "I don't know what to say to you. Go home now, and tell your mother all about it. I'll leave the matter of punishment in her hands. I'm sure you didn't mean to do wrong,—you never do,—but, oh, Marjorie, it was wrong!"

"Yes, it was, Miss Lawrence, and I'm awful sorry. I do hope Mother will punish me."

Marjorie's hope was so funny that Miss Lawrence smiled, as she kissed the stained little face through the sheltering veil, and then Midget trudged off home, thinking that as Miss Lawrence had kissed her, she hadn't been so very bad, after all.

"What is the matter, child?" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, as Marjorie marched into her mother's room. "Why have you that thing on your head, and why are you home from school at this hour?"

Midget couldn't resist this dramatic situation.

"Guess," she said, blithely. Her inky hands were in her coat pockets, her apron was covered by her outer garment, and her face was obscured by the thick brown veil.

"I can't guess just what's the trouble," said her mother, "but I do guess you've been getting into some mischief."

Marjorie was disappointed.

"Oh," she said, "I thought you'd guess that I've broken out with smallpox or measles or something!"

Mrs. Maynard was preoccupied with some intricate sewing, and did not quite catch the first part of Marjorie's remark. But the last words sent a shock to her mother-heart.

"What!" she cried. "What do you mean? Smallpox! Measles! Has it broken out in the school? Take off that veil!" As she spoke, Mrs. Maynard jumped up from her chair, and ran to her daughter with outstretched arms.

This was more interesting, and Midget danced about as she turned her back to her mother to have the veil untied.

With trembling fingers Mrs. Maynard loosened the knot Miss Lawrence had tied, and hastily pulled off the veil. Meantime, Midget had thrown off her coat, and stood revealed in all her dreadful inkiness.

The saucy, blackened face was so roguishly smiling, and Mrs. Maynard was so grateful not to see a red, feverish countenance, that she sat down in a chair and shook with laughter.

This was just what Marjorie wanted, and, running to her mother's side, she laughed, too.

"Get away from me, you disreputable individual," said Mrs. Maynard, drawing her pretty morning dress away from possible contamination.

"Oh, Mothery, it's all dry now; it can't hurt you a bit! But isn't it awful?"

"Awful! You scamp, what does it mean?"

"Why, it's ink, Mother, dear; and do you s'pose it will ever come off?"

"No, I don't! I think it's there for the rest of your life. Is that what you wanted?"

"No. Not for my whole life. Oh, Mother, can't you get it off with milk, or something?"

Marjorie had seen her mother try to take ink-stains out of white linen with milk, and, though the operation was rarely entirely successful, she hoped it would work better on her own skin.

"Milk! No, indeed. Pumice stone might do it, but it would take your skin off, too. Tell me all about it."

So the inky little girl cuddled into her mother's arms, which somehow opened to receive the culprit, and she told the whole dreadful story. Mrs. Maynard was truly shocked.

"I don't wonder Miss Lawrence didn't know what to do with you," she said; "for I'm sure I don't, either. Marjorie, you must have known you were doing wrong when you began that performance. Now, listen! If somebody had told you of another little girl who cut up just such a prank, what would you have said?"

"I'd have said she ought to know better than to fool with ink, anyway. It's the most get-all-overy stuff."

"Well, why did you fool with it, then?"

"Well, you see, Mother, I did know it was awful messy, but that know was in the back of my head, and somehow it slipped away from my memory when the thought that I wanted a witch hat came and pushed it out."

"Now, you're trying to be funny, and I want you to talk sensibly."

"Yes'm, I am sensible. Honest, the thought about the witch hat was so quick it pushed everything else out of my mind."

"Even your sense of duty, and your determination to be a good little girl."

"Yes'm; they all flew away, and my whole head was full of how to make the white paper black. And that was the only way I could think of."

"Well, have your thoughts that were pushed out come back yet?"

"Oh, yes, Mother; they came back as soon as I found myself all inky."

"Then, if they've come back, you know you did wrong?"

"Yes, I do know it now."

"And you know that little girls who do wrong have to be punished?"

"Ye-es; I s'pose I know that. How are you going to punish me?"

"We must discuss that. I think you deserve a rather severe punishment, for this was really, truly mischief. What do you think of staying home from Gladys' Hallowe'en party as a punishment?"

"Oh, Moth-er May-nard! You just can't mean that!"

"I'm not sure but I do. You must learn, somehow, Midget, that if you do these awful things, you must have awful punishments."

"Yes, but to stay home from Gladys' party! Why, those horrid, cruel people in the history book couldn't get up a worse punishment than that! Mother, say you don't mean it!"

"I won't decide just now; I'll think it over. Meantime, let's see what we can do toward cleaning you up."

The process was an uncomfortable one, and, after Marjorie's poor little face and hands had gone through a course of lemon juice, pumice stone, and other ineffectual obliterators, she felt as if she had had punishment enough.

And the final result was a grayish, smeared-looking complexion, very different from her own usual healthy pink and white.

Greatly subdued, and fearful of the impending punishment, Marjorie lay on a couch in her mother's room, resting after the strenuous exertions of her scrubbing and scouring.

"I do think I'm the very worst child in the whole world," she said, at last. "Isn't it surprising, Mother, that I should be so bad, when you're so sweet and good? Do you think I take after Father?"

Mrs. Maynard suppressed a smile.

"Wait till Father comes home, and ask him that question," she said.



CHAPTER XI

THE HALLOWE'EN PARTY

Mr. and Mrs. Maynard talked over Marjorie's latest prank, and concluded that it would indeed be too great a punishment to keep her at home from the Hallowe'en party.

So her punishment consisted in being kept at home from the Saturday meeting of the Jinks Club.

This was indeed a deprivation, as the members of the club were to plan games for the party, but still it was an easier fate to bear than absence from the great event itself.

Marjorie was so sweet and patient as she sat at home, while King and Kitty started off for the Jinks Club, that Mrs. Maynard was tempted to waive the punishment and send her along, too.

But the mother well knew that what she was doing was for her child's own good, and so she stifled her own desires, and let Marjorie stay at home.

Midget was restless, though she tried hard not to show it. She fed the gold-fish, she read in her book of Fairy Tales, she tried amusements of various sorts, but none seemed to interest her. In imagination she could see the rest of the Jinks Club seated in the bay at Dorothy Adams', chattering about the party.

"Oh, hum," sighed Marjorie, as she stood looking out of the playroom window, "I do believe I'll never be naughty again."

"What's 'e matter, Middy?" said Rosy Posy, coming along just then. "Don't you feels dood? Want to p'ay wiv my Boffin Bear?"

Marjorie took the soft, woolly bear, and somehow he was a comforting old fellow.

"Let's play something, Rosy Posy," she said.

"Ess; p'ay house?"

"No; that's no fun. Let's play something where we can bounce around. I feel awful dull."

"Ess," said Rosy Posy, who was amiable, but not suggestive.

"Let's play I'm a hippopotamus, and you're a little yellow chicken, and I'm trying to catch you and eat you up."

Down went Rosy Posy on all-fours, scrambling across the floor, and saying, "Peep, peep"; and down went Marjorie, and lumbered across the floor after her sister, while she roared and growled terrifically.

Mrs. Maynard heard the noise, but she only smiled to think that Marjorie was working off her disappointment that way instead of sulking.

Finally the hippopotamus caught the chicken, and devoured it with fearful gnashing of teeth, the chicken meanwhile giggling with delight at the fun.

Then they played other games, in which Boffin joined, and also Marjorie's kitten, Puff. The days, of late, had been such busy ones that Puff had been more or less neglected, and as she was a socially inclined little cat, she was glad to be restored to public favor.

And so the long morning dragged itself away, and at luncheon-time the Jinks Club sent its members home.

The Maynards were always a warm-hearted, generous-minded lot of little people, and, far from teasing Marjorie about her morning at home, King and Kitty told her everything that had been discussed and decided at the Jinks Club, and brought her the money contributed by the members.

So graphic were their descriptions that Marjorie felt almost as if she had been there herself; and her spirits rose as she realized that her punishment was over, and in the afternoon she could go over to Gladys', and really help in the preparations for the party.

At last the night of the great occasion arrived.

Then it was Marjorie's turn to feel sorry for Kitty, because she was too young to go to evening parties. But Mr. and Mrs. Maynard had promised some special fun to Kitty at home, and she watched Midget's preparations with interest quite untinged by envy.

Kingdon and Marjorie were to go alone at seven o'clock, and Mr. Maynard was to come after them at nine.

"But Gladys said, Mother," said Midge, "that she hoped we'd stay later than nine."

"I hope you won't," said Mrs. Maynard. "You're really too young to go out at night anyway, but as it's just across the street, I trust you'll get there safely. But you must come home as soon as Father comes for you."

"Yes, if he makes us," said Marjorie, smiling at her lenient father, who was greatly inclined to indulge his children.

"If you're not back as soon as I think you ought to be, I shall telephone for you," said Mrs. Maynard; but Marjorie knew from her mother's smiling eyes that she was not deeply in earnest.

Midget had on a very pretty dress of thin white muslin, with ruffles of embroidery. She wore a broad pink sash, and her dark curls were clustered into a big pink bow, which bobbed and danced on top of her head. Pink silk stockings and dainty pink slippers completed her costume, and her father declared she looked good enough to eat.

"Eat her up," said Rosy Posy, who was ecstatically gazing at her beautiful big sister. "Be a hippottymus, Fader, an' eat Mopsy all up!"

"Not till after she's been to the party, Baby. They'll all be expecting her."

Kingdon, quite resplendent in the glory of his first Tuxedo jacket, also looked admiringly at his pretty sister.

"You'll do, Mops," he said. "Come on, let's go. It's just seven."

Mrs. Maynard put a lovely white, hooded cape of her own round Marjorie, and carefully drew the hood up over her curls.

"See that your bow is perked up after you take this off," said the mother, as a parting injunction, and then the two children started off.

The parents watched them from the window, as they crossed the street in the moonlight, and Mrs. Maynard sighed as she said, "They're already beginning to grow up."

"But we have some littler ones," said her husband, gaily, as he prepared for a game of romps with Kitty and Rosy Posy.

When King and Marjorie rang the bell at Gladys Fulton's, the door opened very slowly, and they could hear a low, sepulchral groan.

Midge clung to her brother's arm, for though she knew everything was to be as weird and grotesque as possible, yet it was delightful to feel the shudder of surprise.

As the door opened further, they could see that the house was but dimly lighted, and the hall was full of a deep red glow. This was caused by putting red shades on the lights and standing a semi-transparent red screen before the blazing wood-fire in the big fireplace.

The groan was repeated, and then they realized that it said, "Welcome, welcome!" but in such a wailing voice that it seemed to add to the gloom. The voice proceeded from a figure draped in a white sheet.

"Hello, Ghost!" said King, who knew that Dick Fulton himself was wrapped in the sheet.

"O-o-o-o-ugh!" groaned the ghost.

"You don't seem to feel well," said Marjorie, giggling. "Poor Ghost, why don't you go to bed?"

But before the ghost could speak again, a gorgeous witch came prancing up, carrying a broomstick wound with red ribbons. The witch was all in red, with a tall peaked hat of red, covered with cabalistic designs cut from gilt paper and pasted on. She groaned and wailed, too, and then spoke in a rapid and unintelligible jargon.

The Maynards knew that this witch was Gladys, but some of the guests did not know it, and were greatly mystified.

A few older persons, whom Mrs. Fulton had invited to help entertain the children, were stationed in the various rooms. Dressed in queer costumes, they played bits of weird music on the piano, or struck occasional clanging notes from muffled gongs.

All of this greatly pleased Marjorie, who loved make-believe, and she fell into the spirit of the occasion, and went about on tiptoe with a solemn, awed face. Indeed she made the ghosts and witches laugh in spite of their wish to be awesome. The rooms were decorated to befit the day, and great jack-o'-lanterns grinned from mantels or brackets. Autumn leaves were in profusion, and big black cats cut from paper adorned the walls.

Soon the party were all assembled, and then the games began.

First, all were led out to the kitchen, which was decorated with ears of corn, sheaves of grain, and other harvest trophies.

On a table were dishes of apples and nuts, not for eating purposes, but to play the games with.

There were several tubs half filled with water, and in these the young people were soon "bobbing for apples." On the apples were pinned papers on which were written various names, and the merry guests strove to grasp an apple with their teeth, either by its stem or by biting into the fruit itself. This proved to be more difficult than it seemed, and it was soon abandoned for the game of apple-parings. After an apple was pared in one continuous strip, the paring was tossed three times round the head, and then thrown to the floor. The initial it formed there was said to represent the initial of the fate of the one who threw it.

"Pshaw!" said Marjorie, as she tried for the third time, "it always makes E, and I don't know anybody who begins with E."

"Perhaps you'll meet some one later," said Mrs. Fulton, smiling. "You're really too young to consider these 'fates' entirely trustworthy."

Then they all tried blowing out the candle. This wasn't a "Fate" game, but there were prizes for the successful ones.

Each guest was blindfolded, led to a table where stood a lighted candle, turned round three times, and ordered to blow it out. Only three attempts were allowed, and not everybody won the little witches, owls, black cats, bats, and tiny pumpkins offered as prizes.

Marjorie, though securely blindfolded, was fortunate enough to blow straight and hard, and out went the candle-flame. Her prize was a gay little chenille imp, which she stuck in her hair with great glee.

Then they all went back to the drawing-room, where a pretty game had been arranged during their absence.

From the chandelier was suspended a large-sized "hoople" that had been twisted with red ribbon. From this at regular intervals hung, by short ribbons, candies, cakes, apples, nuts, candle ends, lemons, and sundry other things.

The children stood round in a circle, and the hoop was twisted up tightly and then let to untwist itself slowly. As it revolved, the children were to catch the flying articles in their teeth. Any one getting a lemon was out of the game. Any one getting a candle end had to pay a forfeit, but those who caught the goodies could eat them.

Next, after being seated round the room, each child was given a spoon.

Then a dish of ice-cream was passed, of which each took a spoonful and ate it. In the ice-cream had previously been hidden a dime, a ring, a thimble, a button, and a nutmeg. Whoever chanced to get the ring was destined to be married first. Whoever took the dime was destined to become very wealthy. The thimble denoted a thrifty housewife; the button, a life of single blessedness; and the nutmeg, a good cook.

Shouts of laughter arose, as they learned that Kingdon would be an old bachelor, and doubts were expressed when Gladys triumphantly exhibited the nutmeg.

"You can't ever learn to cook!" cried Dick. "You're too much of a butterfly."

"Good cooks make the butter fly," said Kingdon, and then they all laughed again. Indeed, they were quite ready to laugh at anything. For a Hallowe'en party is provocative of much merriment, and the most nonsensical speeches were applauded.

They popped corn, and they melted lead, and they roasted chestnuts, and then some more difficult experiments were tried.

Harry Frost and Marjorie were chosen to "Thread the Needle."

Each held a cupful of water in the left hand, and in the right hand Harry held a good-sized needle, while Marjorie held a length of thread. She tried to get the thread through the needle, and he tried to help, or at least not hinder her; but all the time both must have a care that no drop of water was spilled from their cups.

The tradition was that if they succeeded in threading the needle within a minute they were destined for each other; but as they couldn't do it, Harry bade her a laughing farewell, and offered the thread to Gladys. They were no more successful, and the game was abandoned as being too difficult.

Nutshell boats was a pretty game. The tiny craft, made of English walnut shells, with paper sails, had been prepared beforehand, and the guests wrote their names on the sails, then loaded each boat with a cargo of a wish written on a slip of paper.

The boats were then set afloat in a tub of water, and by gently blowing on them their owners endeavored to make them go ashore, or rather to the side of the tub. As one hit the wood it was taken out, and the owner joyfully announced that his or her wish would come true, but many of them stayed stubbornly in mid-ocean and refused to land. The unfortunate owners condoled with each other on their hard fate.

The merry games being over, all went to the dining-room for the feast that was spread there.

The children were paired off, and, while Mrs. Fulton played stirring strains on the piano, they marched around the rooms, and so out to the dining-room.

The elaborately decorated table called forth shouts of joy, and soon all were seated in chairs round the room, enjoying the good things.

On the table were jack-o'-lanterns made not only of pumpkins, but of squashes, turnips, and even of big red or green apples.

Candles were burning in all of these, and standing about the table were queer little gnomes and witches, made of nuts, or of dried prunes. These little figures were souvenirs, and were distributed to all the guests. The ice-cream was in the form of little yellow pumpkins, and proved to taste quite as good as it looked. There were also more substantial viands, such as nut sandwiches, apple salad, pumpkin pie, and grape jelly. Everything had some reference to Hallowe'en or to Harvest Home, and the children were not too young to appreciate this.

Supper was just about over when Mr. Maynard came after his children.

"Oh, Father," cried Marjorie, "you said you wouldn't come till nine o'clock!"

"But it's quarter-past nine now, my daughter."

"It can't be!" exclaimed Midge, greatly surprised; and everybody said, "Is it, really?"

"But we must have one merry round game before we part," said Mrs. Fulton, and, though several parents had arrived to take their little ones home, they all agreed to wait ten minutes more.

So they had a rollicking game of "Going to Jerusalem," and then the party was over.

Marjorie said good-night politely to Mrs. Fulton and the other grown-ups who had entertained them, making her pretty little bobbing courtesy, as she had been taught to do.

Kingdon said good-night in his frank, boyish way, and then they went for their wraps.

"Oh, Father," said Midget as they crossed the street to their own home, "it was the very loveliest party! Can't I sit up for a while and tell you every single thing that happened?"

"I'd love to have you do that, Mopsy Midget; in fact, I can scarcely wait till morning to hear about it all. But it is my duty as a stern parent to order you off to bed at once. Little girls that wheedle fond fathers into letting them go to evening parties must be content to scoot for bed the minute they get home."

"All right, then, Father, but do get up early in the morning to hear all about it, won't you?"

"I'll guarantee to get up as early as you do, Sleepyhead," said Mr. Maynard, for Marjorie was yawning as if the top of her head was about to come off.

Mrs. Maynard accompanied the little girl to her bedroom, but Midge was too tired to do more than tell her mother that it was the most beautiful party in the world, and that next day she should hear all about it.

"I can wait, little girl," said Mrs. Maynard, as she tucked Midget up and kissed her good-night, but the exhausted child was already in the land of dreams.



CHAPTER XII

TOTTY AND DOTTY

"Marjorie," said her mother, one Saturday morning, "I expect Mrs. Harrison to spend the day. She will bring her little baby with her, and I want you to stay at home, so that you can wheel the baby about if she asks you to do so."

"I will, Mother. The Jinks Club meets here this afternoon anyway, and this morning I'll stay at home. Can't I ask Gladys to come over? We'd love to take care of the baby together."

"Yes, have Gladys if you like. I don't mind."

Mrs. Maynard went off to look after housekeeping affairs, and Marjorie ran over to ask Gladys to come and spend the morning.

The two girls were sitting on a bench under a tree on the front lawn, when they saw Mrs. Harrison come in at the gate. She was wheeling her baby-carriage, and Marjorie ran to meet her.

"How do you do, Mrs. Harrison?" she said. "Mother is expecting you. Come right on up to the house. Mayn't I wheel Baby for you?"

"I wish you would, my dear. I gave nurse a holiday, but I didn't realize how tiresome that heavy carriage is, after wheeling it so many blocks."

Marjorie pushed the little coach, while Gladys danced alongside, talking to the winsome baby.

"What's her name, Mrs. Harrison?" she said.

"Oh!" replied the young mother, "she has the dignified name of Katharine, but we never call her that. I'm ashamed to say we call her Totty."

"I think Totty is a lovely name," said Midget. "It makes me think of Dotty, a baby who lives about a block away from us. She's just the same size as this baby."

"Probably she's older, then," said Mrs. Harrison, complacently; "Totty's just a year old, but she's much larger than most children of that age."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Midget, wagging her head wisely, though she really knew little about the comparative sizes of infants. Mrs. Maynard awaited them at the front door, and the procession arrived with a flourish.

"Here we are, Mother," announced Marjorie, and she and Gladys lifted baby Totty out of her nest of pillows and knit afghans.

"Why, how handy you are, child," said Mrs. Harrison. "But give her to me now, and I'll look after her."

Marjorie handed the pretty burden over, and said:

"But mayn't we take her out for a ride, Mrs. Harrison? I'm sure she ought to be out in the fresh air this morning."

"I'll see about it later," said Totty's mother, and then she went into the house with her hostess, and the girls ran away to play.

But an hour later, Mrs. Maynard called Marjorie, and said she might take the baby for a ride.

Gleefully, Marjorie and Gladys ran into the house.

They helped arrange Miss Totty's coat and cap, and so merry were they that the baby laughed and crowed, and made friends at once.

"How she takes to you!" said Mrs. Harrison. "Sometimes she is afraid of strangers, but she seems to love you."

"'Cause I love her," said Midge; "she's a sweet baby, and so good. Shall I bring her in if she cries, Mrs. Harrison?"

"Yes; but she won't cry. She's more likely to go to sleep."

The little lady was tucked into her carriage; white mittens on her tiny hands, and a white veil over her rosy face.

"Does she need the veil?" asked Mrs. Maynard, doubtfully. "It isn't cold to-day."

"No," said Mrs. Harrison; "but the breeze is brisk; and she's used to a light veil. I think she'd better wear it."

"How far can we go?" asked Marjorie, as the preparations were completed.

"Stay in the yard, mostly," said her mother. "If you go out in the street, don't go more than two blocks away."

"All right, we won't," said Marjorie. "Come on, Glad." The two little girls started off with the baby-carriage.

"She's a careful child," said Mrs. Harrison, as she noticed Marjorie turn a corner with precision.

"Yes," said Mrs. Maynard. "And she's devoted to children. You need have no fear of Totty."

"Oh, I haven't," said Mrs. Harrison, and then the two friends returned to the house, and sat down for a long chat.

The girls had a fine time with the baby. They rolled the carriage carefully, pausing now and then to present their little guest with a bright autumn leaf, or a big horse-chestnut, which they picked up from the ground.

"Let's pretend she's an infant princess, and we're kidnapping her," said Marjorie.

"All right; what's her name?"

"Princess Petronella," said Marjorie, promptly, using a favorite name of hers.

"I don't think much of that," said Gladys; "I like Ermyntrude."

"Both, then," said Marjorie; for this was a way they often settled their differences. "Her name is Princess Ermyntrude Petronella; and we call her Ermyn Pet for short."

"But we ought to call her Princess," objected Gladys.

"Well, we will. But remember we're kidnapping her for a great reward. Hist! Some one cometh!"

They hustled the carriage behind a great pine-tree, in pretended fear of a pursuer, though no one was in sight.

"How much shall we charge for ransom?" asked Gladys, in the hollow voice that they always used in their make-believe games.

"A thousand rubbles," answered Marjorie; "and unless the sum is forthcoming ere set of sun, the Princess shall be,—shall be——"

Marjorie hesitated. It seemed dreadful to pronounce fate, even in make-believe, on that dimpled, smiling bit of humanity.

"Shall be imprisoned," suggested Gladys.

"Yes, imprisoned in an enchanted castle."

Totty crowed and gurgled, as if greatly pleased with her destiny, and the girls wheeled her along the path to the gate.

"She reminds me so much of Dotty Curtis," said Midget. "Let's go down that way and see if Dotty's out. Mother said we could go two blocks."

On they went, crossing the curbs with great care, and soon turned in at Mrs. Curtis' house.

Sure enough, there was the nurse wheeling the Curtis baby around the drive.

"Good-morning," said Marjorie, who was friendly with Nurse Lisa. "How is Dotty to-day?"

"She's well, Miss Marjorie," replied Lisa; "and who's the fine child with you?"

"This is little Totty Harrison; and I think she looks like Dot. Let's compare them."

The veils were taken off the two children, and sure enough they did look somewhat alike.

"They're both darlings," said Marjorie, as she gently replaced Totty's veil. "Lisa, won't you let Gladys wheel Dotty for awhile, and I'll wheel Totty. That would be fun."

"I'll willingly leave her with you for a bit, Miss Gladys. I've some work to do in the house, and if you'll keep baby for a few minutes it would be a great thing for me. Mrs. Curtis is out, but I know she'd trust you with the child, if the other lady does. But don't go off the place."

"No," said Marjorie; "this place is so big there's room enough anyway. I promise you we won't go outside the gates, Lisa."

"Isn't this fun?" cried Marjorie, as Lisa went away. "Now, we have two kidnapped princesses. Or shall we play house with them?"

"No, let's have them princesses. Now you can name yours Petronella, and I'll name mine Ermyntrude."

This momentous question settled, the game went on. They pretended that the princesses were anxious to get back to their respective homes, and that they must resort to bribery and strategy to keep them contented.

"Nay, nay, Princess Petronella," Marjorie would say; "weep not for friends and family. I will take you to a far better place, where flowers grow and birds sing and—and——"

"And gold-fish swim," went on Gladys, who always followed Marjorie's lead, "and roosters crow—cock-a-doodle-doo!!"

This climax, accompanied as it was by Gladys' flapping her arms and prancing about, greatly delighted both princesses, and they laughed and clamored for more.

"Aren't they dears!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she looked at the two pretty babies. "Methinks no ransom is forthcoming. Must we resort to our dire and dreadful doom?"

"Aye, aye!" said Gladys. "To the enchanted castle with the fatal victims."

So long as the girls used tragic-sounding words they didn't always care whether they made sense or not.

"On, on, then!" cried Midget. "On, on! To victory, or defeat!"

Each pushing a carriage, they ran down the long drive, across the wide lawn, and paused, flushed and breathless, at a rustic summer-house.

Into the arbor they pushed the two coaches, and then dropped, laughing, on the seats.

The babies laughed, too, and both Dotty and Totty seemed to think that to be a captive princess was a delightful fate. The girls sat still for awhile to rest, but the game went on.

"Shall it be the donjon keep?"

"Nay, not for these, so young and fair," answered Gladys. "Let's chain them with rose garlands to a silken couch."

"Huh!" said Marjorie, "that's not a dire fate. Let's do something that's more fun. Oh, Glad, I'll tell you what! Let's exchange these babies! That's what they always do in tragedies. Listen! We'll put Dotty's hood on Totty, and Totty's cap on Dotty. And change their coats, too!"

"Yes, and veils; oh, Mops! What fun! If we change their coats quickly they won't catch cold."

"Cold, pooh! It's as warm as summer."

It wasn't quite that, but it was a lovely, sunshiny day in early October, and, after running, it seemed quite warm to the girls.

Following out their project, they quickly exchanged the babies' wraps.

By this time both little ones were growing sleepy, and were in a quiet, tractable frame of mind.

"Their little white dresses are almost alike, anyway," said Gladys, as she took off Totty's coat.

"Oh, well, we wouldn't think of changing their dresses," said Mopsy; "but let's change their little shoes. I'd like to see Totty in those cunning ankle-ties."

"And I'd like to see Dotty in those pretty blue kid shoes."

"Of course, we'll change them right back, but I just want to see how they look."

Soon the transformation was complete. To all outward appearance of costume, Dotty was Totty, and Totty was Dotty. Even the veils were changed, as one was of silk gauze, the other of knitted zephyr.

Then, not in their own, but in each other's carriage, the reversed princesses nodded and beamed at their captors.

"Now, you push that carriage, and I'll push this," said Marjorie, taking hold of the carriage she had pushed all the time, though now it had the other baby in it.

"All right," said Gladys, "let's go round by the garden."

Slowly now, the girls went round by the large well-kept kitchen garden, and then through the flower gardens back to the front lawn.

"Why," said Marjorie, suddenly, "both these children are asleep!"

"Mrs. Harrison said Totty would go to sleep," said Gladys. "I guess all babies go to sleep about this time in the morning. It seems too bad to wake them up to change their coats back again, but I think we ought to take Totty back, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. Suppose we leave the coats and caps as they are, and then afterward we can bring back Dotty's things and get Totty's."

"Here you are!" cried Lisa, coming to meet them at the front door. "You're good little girls to mind the baby for me. I'll take her now, and I thank you much."

As Lisa spoke, she took hold of the Curtis carriage, which contained the Harrison baby.

"Ah, she's asleep, bless her heart!" she exclaimed, looking at the closed eyes, almost hidden by the white veil. "I'm glad she's getting a fine nap. Run along now with your own baby."

Partly confused by Lisa's quick and peremptory dismissal, and partly impelled by a sudden mischievous idea, Marjorie smiled a good-bye, and began trundling the other carriage toward the gate.

"Why, Midge!" whispered Gladys, aghast. "We've got the wrong baby! This is Dotty Curtis!"

"Keep still!" whispered Marjorie. "I know it. But it's a good joke on that snippy Lisa."

"She wasn't snippy."

"Yes, she was; she said 'Run along now, little girls,' after we've been helping her all the morning. She's going to let the baby stay asleep in the carriage, and she won't know it till she wakes up."

"Who won't? The baby?"

"No, Lisa. And then she'll be scared, and it will serve her right."

"But what about Mrs. Harrison? You don't want to scare her."

"That's just the thing," explained Marjorie. "I want to see if she'll know the difference in the babies. They say mothers can always tell their own children. Now we'll see."

"It's a great joke," said Gladys, giggling. "But suppose they never find it out, and the children live with their wrong mothers all their lives!"

"Don't be silly," said Marjorie.



CHAPTER XIII

A FAIR EXCHANGE?

Mrs. Maynard opened the front door just as the children approached with the baby-carriage.

"Come along, girlies!" she cried. "Marjorie, wheel the carriage right into the hall."

"The baby's asleep, Mother," said Midget, as she and Gladys brought the carriage over the door-sill.

"Oh, is she? Totty's asleep, Mildred," she called, in a stage whisper, to Mrs. Harrison, who was upstairs.

"I thought she would be," responded that lady. "Just throw back her veil, and leave her as she is. She often takes her nap in her carriage, and there's no use waking her."

Gently, Mrs. Maynard turned back the veil from the little sleeping face, and, as she had no thought of anything being wrong, she did not notice any difference in the baby features.

"Gladys, we'd like to have you stay to luncheon," she said. "So you and Midge run upstairs and tidy your curls at once." With demure steps, but with dancing eyes, the girls went upstairs.

"I'm afraid it's mischief," whispered Gladys to Marjorie, as she tied her hair-ribbon for her.

"No, it isn't!" declared Midge, stoutly. "It's only a joke, and it can't do any harm. Mother didn't know it was a different baby, and I don't believe Mrs. Harrison will know either."

Trim and tidy once more the two friends went downstairs.

As they were on the stairs they heard the sound of the telephone bell.

Mrs. Maynard answered it, and in a moment Gladys realized that her own mother was talking at the other end of the wire.

After a short conversation, Mrs. Maynard hung up the receiver, and said:

"Mrs. Fulton says that Mr. Fulton has come home quite unexpectedly and that they are going for an afternoon's motor ride. She wants both of you girls to go, but she says you must fly over there at once, as they're all ready to start. She tried to tell us sooner, but couldn't get a connection on the telephone."

"But we haven't had luncheon," said Marjorie, "and I'm fairly starving."

"They're taking luncheon with them," explained Mrs. Maynard. "And you must go at once, not to keep Mr. Fulton waiting. Of course, you needn't go if you don't want to, Midge."

"Oh, I do! I'm crazy to go! And luncheon in baskets is such fun! What shall I wear, Mother?"

"Go just as you are. That frock is quite clean. Put on your hat and coat, and I'll get a long veil for you."

Gladys had already run off home, and Marjorie was soon equipped and ready to follow.

As she flew out of the door, she remembered the joke about the babies.

"Oh, Mother, I've something to tell you!" she cried.

"Never mind now," said Mrs. Maynard, hurrying her off. "It will keep till you get back. And I hate to have you keep the Fultons waiting. They're in haste to start. So kiss me, and run along."

Even as she spoke, Dick Fulton appeared, saying he had been sent to hurry Marjorie up; so taking Dick's hand, the two ran swiftly down the path to the gate. Mrs. Maynard watched Marjorie's flying feet, and after she was out of sight around the corner, the lady returned to the house.

With a glance at the sleeping child, she turned to Mrs. Harrison, who was just coming downstairs.

"Totty is sleeping sweetly," she said, "so come at once to luncheon, Mildred."

"In a moment, Helen. I think I'll take off her cap and coat; she'll be too warm."

"You'll waken her if you do."

"Oh, well, she'll drop right to sleep again; she always does. And anyway, it's time she had a drink of milk."

"Very well, Mildred. You take off her wraps, and I'll ask Sarah to warm some milk for her."

Mrs. Maynard went to speak to Sarah, and Mrs. Harrison lifted the sleeping baby from the carriage.

She sat the blinking-eyed child on her knee while she unfastened her coat. Then she took off the veil and cap, and then,—she stared at the baby, and the baby stared at her.

Suddenly Mrs. Harrison gave a scream.

"Helen, Helen!" she called to her friend, and Mrs. Maynard came running to her side.

"What is the matter, Mildred? Is Totty ill?"

By this time the baby too had begun to scream. Always afraid of strangers, Miss Dotty Curtis didn't know what to make of the scenes in which she found herself, nor of the strange lady who held her.

"Mildred, dear, what is the matter? You look horror-stricken! And what ails Totty?"

"This isn't my child!" wailed Mrs. Harrison.

"Totty isn't your child! What do you mean?"

"But this isn't, Totty! It isn't my baby! I don't know who it is."

"Mildred, you're crazy! Of course this is Totty. These are her blue kid shoes. And this is her coat and cap."

"I don't care if they are! It isn't Totty at all. Oh, where is my baby?"

Mrs. Harrison was on the verge of hysterics, and Mrs. Maynard was genuinely alarmed.

"Behave yourself, Mildred!" she said, sternly. "Gather yourself together. Here, sip this glass of water."

"I'm perfectly sensible," said Mrs. Harrison, quieting down a little, as she noticed her friend's consternation. "But I tell you, Helen, this is not my baby. Doesn't a mother know her own child? Totty's hair is a little longer, and her eyes are a little larger. I don't know who this baby is, but she isn't mine."

"I believe you're right," said Mrs. Maynard, looking more closely at the screaming baby.

"There, there!" she said, taking the frightened little one in her own arms.

"Ma-ma!" cried the baby.

"Hear her voice!" exclaimed Mrs. Harrison. "That isn't the way my Totty talks. Oh, Helen, what has happened?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Maynard, her face very white. "It doesn't seem possible that any marauder should have slipped into the house and put this child in Totty's place. Why, it was only about a half-hour ago that the girls brought Totty in. Mildred, are you sure this isn't Totty?"

"Am I sure! Yes, I am. Wouldn't you know your own children from strangers? Helen, a dreadful crime has been committed. Somehow this baby has been substituted for mine. Oh, Totty, where are you now?"

"What shall I do, Mildred? Shall I call up Mr. Maynard on the telephone, or shall I ring up the police station?"

"Yes, call the police. It's dreadful, I know, but how else can we find Totty?"

Meantime Sarah appeared with a cup of warm milk.

The baby stretched out eager little hands, and Mrs. Maynard carefully held the cup for her to drink.

"She's a nice little thing," observed that lady. "See how prettily she behaves."

"Helen, you'll drive me crazy. I don't care how she behaves, she isn't Totty. Why, that isn't even Totty's little dress. So you see the kidnapper did change her shoes and wraps, but not her frock."

Mrs. Harrison showed signs of hysterics, and Mrs. Maynard was at her wits' end what to do.

"I suppose I'd better call the police," she said. "Here, Mildred, you hold this baby."

Mrs. Harrison gingerly took the baby that wasn't hers, and looked like a martyr as she held her.

But comforted by the warm food, the baby pleasantly cuddled up in Mrs. Harrison's arms and went to sleep.

Mrs. Maynard, greatly puzzled, went to the telephone, but before she touched it there was a furious peal at the front-door bell.

The moment the door was opened, in rushed a pretty, but frantic and very angry, little lady, carrying a child.

"Where's my baby?" she demanded, as she fairly stamped her foot at Mrs. Maynard.

"That's my child!" she went on, turning to Mrs. Harrison. "What are you doing with her?"

"I don't want her!" cried Mrs. Harrison. "But what are you doing with my baby?"

Totty, in the visitor's arms, held out her hands to her mother, and gurgled with glee.

"Ma-ma!" said the other baby, waking up at all this commotion and holding out her hands also.

The exchange was made in a moment, and, still unpacified, Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Curtis glared at each other.

Mrs. Maynard struggled to suppress her laughter, for the scene was a funny one; but she knew the two ladies were thoroughly horrified at the mystery, and mirth would be quite out of place.

"Let me introduce you," she said. "Mrs. Curtis, this is my dear friend, Mrs. Harrison. Your little ones are the same age, and look very much alike."

"Not a bit alike," said both mothers, at once.

"I confess," went on Mrs. Maynard, "that I can't understand it at all, but you certainly each have your own babies now; so, my dear Mrs. Curtis, won't you tell me what you know about this very strange affair?"

Mrs. Curtis had recovered her equilibrium, and, as she sat comfortably holding Dotty, she smiled, with a little embarrassment.

"Dear Mrs. Maynard," she said, "I'm afraid I understand it all better than you do; but I'm also afraid, if I explain it to you, you will,—it will make——"

Suddenly Mrs. Maynard saw a gleam of light.

"Marjorie!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," said Mrs. Curtis; "I think it was due to Miss Mischief. When I returned home from an errand, Lisa said that your Marjorie and Gladys Fulton had had Dotty out in her carriage, and had also another baby who was visiting you. The girls had left Dotty—or rather, Lisa supposed it was Dotty—asleep in her coach, and Nurse let her stay there, asleep, until my return. Then the child wakened—and it wasn't Dotty at all! The baby had on Dot's slippers, cap, coat, and veil, but the rest of her clothes I had never seen before. I felt sure there had been foul play of some sort, but Lisa was sure those girls had exchanged the babies' clothes on purpose. I hoped Lisa was right, but I feared she wasn't, so I picked up the baby and ran over here to see."

Mrs. Maynard was both grieved and chagrined.

"How could Marjorie do such a thing!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, don't be too hard on her, Mrs. Maynard," said Mrs. Curtis. "It's all right, now, and you know Marjorie and Gladys are a mischievous pair."

"But this is inexcusable," went on Mrs. Maynard. "Mrs. Harrison nearly went frantic, and you were certainly greatly alarmed."

Mrs. Curtis smiled pleasantly. "I was," she admitted, "but it was only for a few moments. I was mystified rather than alarmed, for Lisa said the carriage had not been out of her sight a moment, except when the girls had it."

Mrs. Curtis took her leave, and, carrying with her her own baby, went away home.

Mrs. Maynard made sincere apologies to her friend for naughty Marjorie's mischief.

"Never mind, Helen," said Mrs. Harrison. "I can see now it was only a childish prank, and doubtless Marjorie and Gladys expected a good laugh over it; then they ran off unexpectedly and forgot all about the babies."

Mrs. Maynard remembered then that Midget had said at the last moment that she had something to tell her, but that she had hurried the child off.

"Still," she thought to herself, "that was no excuse for Midge. She should have told me."

After a refreshing luncheon, Mrs. Harrison was able to view the matter more calmly.

"Don't punish Marjorie for this, Helen," she said. "Children will be children, and I daresay those girls thought it would be a fine joke on me."

"I certainly shall punish her, Mildred. She is altogether too thoughtless, and too careless of other people's feelings. She never does wilful or malicious wrong, but she tumbles into mischief thoughtlessly. She will be honestly grieved when she learns how frightened and upset you were, and she'll never do such a thing again. But, the trouble is she'll do some other thing that will be equally naughty, but something that no one can foresee or warn her against."

"Well, just for my sake, Helen, don't punish her this time; at least, not much. I really oughtn't to have gone to pieces so; I ought to have realized that it could all be easily explained."

But Mrs. Maynard would not promise to condone Midget's fault entirely, and argued that she really ought to be punished for what turned out to be a troublesome affair.

Mrs. Harrison went home about four o'clock, and it was five before Marjorie returned.

Her mother met her at the door.

"Did you have a pleasant time, Marjorie?" she said.

"Oh, yes, Mother; we had a lovely time. We went clear to Ridge Park. Oh, I do love to ride in an automobile."

"Go and take off your things, my child, and then come to me in my room."

"Yes, Mother," said Marjorie, and she danced away to take off her hat.

"Here I am, Mother," she announced, a little later. "Now shall I tell you all about my afternoon?"

"Not quite yet, dear. I'll tell you all about my afternoon first. Mrs. Harrison had a very unhappy time, and of course that made me unhappy also."

"Why, Mother, what was the trouble about?"

Mrs. Maynard looked into the clear, honest eyes of her daughter, and sighed as she realized that Marjorie had no thought of what had made the trouble.

"Why did you put Dotty Curtis' cloak and hat on Totty?"

Then the recollection came back to Marjorie.

"Oh, Mother!" she cried, as she burst into a ringing peal of laughter. "Wasn't it a funny joke! Did Mrs. Harrison laugh? Did she know her own baby?"

"Marjorie, I'm ashamed of you. No, Mrs. Harrison did not laugh. Of course she knew that the child you left in the carriage was not her little Totty, and as she didn't know what had happened, she had a very bad scare, and her nerves were completely unstrung."